


The oaks of Troy

by callmecasandra



Series: The Cuckoo [2]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Family Secrets, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, References to Prince Serg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmecasandra/pseuds/callmecasandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A complicated concatenation of circumstances involving Ivan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The oaks of Troy

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Frederick Locker-Lampson's "The Cuckoo"
> 
> Originally posted at http://multikinkmemes.dreamwidth.org/2231.html?thread=182455

It all happens very fast. One moment, Ivan's doing his best invisible man impression; the next, he's throwing himself and Miles to the ground. 

He doesn't even notice that it hurts.

+++ +++ +++

Miles looked grayer than Gregor'd seen since after Aral's funeral. He was used to seeing Miles pale from pain, in hospitals and out; it was the first time he had seen Miles play the waiting game from this side of the hospital bed.

Gregor had already seen the reports on the ride over to ImpMil, but he let Miles babble out the story, in the spirit that the confession might ease the guilt. "And then, Barbas pulled the needler; I didn't even have a chance to think before Ivan was shoving me to the ground. Last time I suggest Ivan play the goat for once." Not that Ivan had agreed, of course. Ivan, Gregor had come to realize, did his best work as an innocent bystander.

Gregor sighed. It wasn't the first time Ivan had thrown himself in front of a live needler, and the last time it had also been pointed at Miles. Gregor, who had not been the target, had instantly had quite a supply of bodies between him and it. Miles had had Ivan. Miles really ought not be so surprised, but, Gregor reflected, Miles probably still assumed that Ivan had rushed forward that horrific day -- like all the other Vor -- solely to protect The Emperor. Given the sudden silence from Miles, it was probably time to prompt him again, lest he sink further into his black mood. "Any medical updates?"

Miles nodded. "Sort of. His liver's ground beef. But you know that." Gregor silently thanked Miles for that mental image, and made a note to tell his kitchens not to serve that anytime soon. "They decided to transplant. They're looking for a donor."

No, that news had not reached Gregor yet. "You?"

Miles nodded. "They claim they're cautiously optimistic. I'm doubtful, personally."

Gregor could see that. If Cordelia were Vor, the chances might have been good. But with Ivan's half-Betan great-grandmother, he was far less inbred than the average member of their caste. And Aral, like Lord Padma before him, was gone, now. 

"Have they tested Alys?" Gregor asked.

"She's flying in from Vorkosigan Surleau now," Miles said, looking as though he might cry.

"What about growing Ivan a new one?" Gregor remembered Aral's long sickness while Miles was dead. 

"No time, apparently. He's bleeding too much."

They were operating, even now, trying desperately to stabilize Ivan -- long enough to find a donor, Gregor realized. "When will you know?"

Miles shrugged. 

Another hour went by; a long-faced nursed appeared to inform Miles that he was not a match. Gregor studied the garden from the window while Miles composed himself, then went to the door of their waiting room, and instructed his Armsmen to find the nurse.

The lab technician to whom it fell to take Gregor's blood seemed a bit overwhelmed; it took him two arms and three tries to find a vein. Gregor did his best to pretend not to notice.

Alys arrived, Simon in tow, another hour later, and immediately went to have samples taken; Gregor wished he'd thought to do the same.

+++ +++ +++

Colonel Gaudet accepted the latest samples, this time from the boy's mother and Captain Illyan, without much hope. Lady Vorpatril might have a chance. Captain Illyan's sample was hardly worth testing, barring a miracle, though he would do so. No greater chance of a match than any random person off the street. But perhaps that's what it would come down to. Too bad Lord Ivan was an only child.

A soft ping alerted him to the fact that the emperor's sample had finished. He sighed, and walked over to it; they were far too distantly related to be optimistic. Still, he would pursue every avenue he could for the boy. Well. Hardly a boy, really, the colonel reminded himself. 

The results -- he didn't believe it at first, checking them over carefully, line by line. That they were a match was hard enough to believe. _Why_ they were a match was near-impossible to conceive of. They had the same father; another glance at the scans made it clear whom. Someone else might have missed it, and assumed that Lady Alys had caught the Crown Prince's eye; Gaudet almost wished he had. But it was perfectly plain to him, having likewise had the Lord Auditor's scan in front of him only an hour before. The Crown Prince Serg was not this man's father. 

But what to do with the information?

Well: first of all, he didn't have to tell anyone anything, beyond that Lord Ivan and the emperor were a match. He could destroy the data as soon as that was done. Both men would know, going forward, that they were good matches, if such circumstances befell them again. That was probably the wisest course of action. 

Another option was to destroy the evidence and tell no-one anything at all. Lord Ivan would die, and in all likelihood, the information would never again come to light. Gaudet discarded this idea almost before it had coalesced in his mind. Too much time studying about old-style "gene therapy". He grimaced. 

But telling them only that they were matches didn't quite sit right with Gaudet either. If another found this information, they would not likely be so circumspect. And yet, telling the emperor -- who seemed a nice young man -- the facts of his birth was hardly a kindness. 

He couldn't delay any longer, however; a man's life hung in the balance. 

He walked to the waiting room, considering his options as he did. The emperor and Captain Illyan looked up as he entered. 

"Ivan's out of surgery," the captain informed him. "If you wanted to speak with Lady Alys, she and Miles are with him now." 

Gaudet realized that this might well be his best chance. "Is this room -- secure?" He directed his question to Illyan. 

"The emperor is in the room," Illyan said. "How much more secure does it need to be?"

"Doctor-patient confidentiality," Gaudet said, more confidently then he felt. His heart was already racing. "Secure even from ImpSec."

"That can be arranged," the emperor said quietly. "I'd have to be certain it was necessary. _Il n’y a pas de héros pour son valet-de-chambre_."

 _No man is a hero to his valet_. ImpSec watched the emperor closest of all. Gaudet smiled thinly. "I believe it to be something you should judge yourself, Sire." 

"Very well," the emperor said. Gaudet did not notice any change. "You may speak freely." Gaudet glanced at Illyan, and the emperor shook his head. "Whatever it is, he keeps bigger secrets than this. And you are acting very strangely, doctor."

Gaudet could hardly deny that. "I'm afraid, Sire, that in examining your gene scan, some… facts," he settled on, "have come to light." 

The emperor's brow furrowed at this. "My gene scans have been examined several times -- before my wedding. Before each of my children were made." 

"Yes, Sire. I'm certain that's true. But never in comparison to those of your cousins. I do not know how best to say this, Sire. But it is perfectly clear, with the scans in front of one, that you and Lord Ivan are half-brothers." The emperor's face darkened at this, and Gaudet sped on. "I do not, jest, Sire. Forgive me. You are both the sons of Lord Vorpatril."

The emperor blinked at this news, but was silent only for a moment. "Am I a match for Ivan?" 

"Yes, Sire," Gaudet told him, relieved to have reached the good news.

"Very well. Arrange for -- whatever arrangements need to be made at this point. Without disclosing why we are a match, of course. That is something to deal with later."

+++ +++ +++

Gregor was not entirely clear on why he was required to lie in bed; he hadn't even had surgery yet. But as so often, he did as he was told, and after he'd showered and dressed in the ridiculous gown, he slid under the covers. There was a gentle knock on the door. "Come," Gregor called, feeling tired all at once. Maybe bed was the best place to be.

Alys entered, and Gregor suddenly did not know where to look. He hadn't had time to consider what he would say to her, and it wasn't like he wouldn't have expected her to be grateful for her son's life. That she would want to speak with him should have been obvious.

"So," she began, and Gregor could not fail to hear that she had been crying. "The doctors told you." 

His gaze snapped to hers. "You knew?", he breathed, unsure of what else he could say.

"Yes. Perhaps the last one still alive, until today."

"I'm," he began and stopped himself. He could not say that he was sorry. He was not. It was a blessed relief to know that Serg's lunacy did not run in his veins, nor his children's. What it meant for him personally, beyond that, he could not say. For that, it was too soon. For the Empire -- well, secrets could be kept. They would have to be. Barrayar could not have another succession war, and he'd surrendered himself to the Imperium long ago. This was not a get-free card for him. God, he wished Aral were still here. But he could say none of this to Alys. He trailed off and looked at her, uncertain.

Absently, she brushed the covers on his bed. "I'm sorry that no one told you, and I wasn't sure that I should."

"Who else knew?" Gregor asked, curious. 

"I'm not entirely sure," Alys told him. "Kareen and Padma, of course. They were the ones who told me. Padma first, after we were married. Kareen, when I told her I was pregnant. Ezar and," here Alys paused. "I'm telling this backwards," she said.

"Ezar knew?" Gregor asked, incredulous. 

Alys sighed. "Yes. It was Ezar's idea. Serg was always… somewhat unstable, as I believe you later realized." Alys glossed over a lot of pain -- Gregor's, that of others -- with that simple statement. 

Gregor nodded. "My fa-- Serg was a monster," Gregor said plainly.

Alys frowned agreement. "Ezar suggested to Kareen that Padma -- being Vorbarra through Xav, and yet with the fresh blood of Xav's wife -- would be a good choice to father the next crown prince. Ezar, or Negri, I suppose, arranged for the doctor. It was all done medically." Here Alys smoothed her skirt, an unconscious display of nerves. 

Gregor could not blame her. It was an awkward subject to broach. And yet -- yet he was glad to think his mother had not blithely placed a cuckoo in the imperial nest for some selfish reason, though he knew, intimately, how hard it was to put the empire first, and she'd had so little cause to do so. 

"Count's choice," Gregor murmured. Alys nodded. "Thank you for telling me. I would have wondered." There was a pause, before Gregor ventured, "Did Simon tell you?" Not that he could blame Simon, exactly; Simon had so rarely allowed himself to be put in a position which could result in personal conflicts of interest, and now...

"No," Alys said. "I told him. He suggested that I tell you."

"He was there when the doctor told me," Gregor told her.

"When you wouldn't look at me, I knew that you must know," she admitted. "I am sorry that no one told you."

"But it wasn't your secret to tell," Gregor sighed.

Alys nodded. "And I wanted to thank you for doing this for Ivan," she added, her voice cracking a little, at the end. 

"How could I not?" He could say nothing more beyond that. Ivan was -- Ivan was, ever before he was a brother, all those things he'd once said about Miles -- a peer of his caste; an officer in his service; the son of an extremely, if obliquely, important official; a personal friend of lifelong standing. The heir, albeit now distantly, to the Countship of a District, and the Imperium itself. Most of all, Ivan was one of the very few people to whom Gregor was _Gregor_ before he was anyone else. 

And now Ivan was his little brother. Ivan might not be thrilled about that part, actually. "About Ivan," Gregor began, before trailing off again.

Alys understood. "I think, now that you know, the choice of whom you tell should be yours."

Ivan would get over it, Gregor decided. He smiled a little, and lay back a bit further on the pillow.

+++ +++ +++

When Ivan awoke, he was dreadfully aware of being the wrong way up. Last he'd checked, he'd been face down -- he was so cold, too. He could tell he was starting to panic, and forced himself to breathe. Miles… would be around here somewhere. Thank god he wasn't as fragile as he used to be. Still, he was in trouble. Damn Barbas! Could Ivan risk opening his eyes? He decided not to, for the moment, merely sliding his hand slowly away from his side, in case Miles was within reach. He hit metal bars, and frowned. He tried on the other side, and found the same. Where the hell was he? He cracked his lids -- they seemed so heavy -- had he been hit with the needler? God, he hoped not. It would explain why he was freezing, if he was bleeding out somewhere.

Looking through his eyelashes, he couldn't see much of the room he was in. It was brightly lit, and very plain. A holding cell of some kind? Fuck…

And where the hell was Miles?

He closed his eyes again. Okay. He had to figure out what to do. Barbas -- or his goons -- would work out that he was awake sooner or later. Unfortunately, he couldn't see any advantage to pretending to be unconscious any longer. 

_Let's see what happens._ Smiling grimly to himself, he opened his eyes, and forced himself to sit up. 

The first thing that happened was he closed his eyes again. But he managed to keep from screaming, through some miracle. He fell back on the bed, and tried not to writhe in pain; it wouldn't help. He was bandaged around the middle -- someone, fortunately, had decided he was worth keeping alive. He dreaded to think why, however…

All of that, however long it seemed to the still-sedated Ivan, had only taken a few seconds; a nurse was quickly at his side. "Captain Vorpatril," he began. "You are at ImpMil. You must lie very still. You have just had surgery. Do you understand?"

Ivan cracked his eyes again. "Where's Miles?"

"Where's Miles?" The corpsman repeated. "Oh. Lord Auditor Vorkosigan. He's in the waiting room. He was uninjured, Captain."

"Want to see Miles," Ivan ground out. It did seem like ImpMil, truthfully. But despite what everyone thought, he wasn't a complete idiot.

"Captain, this is a surgical recovery room. We can't have visitors here," the corpsman explained, sounding patient.

Ivan was only half-convinced. "Want Miles," he repeated.

"I'll see about finding the Lord Auditor," the corpsman sighed. "Are you comfortable?"

"Cold," Ivan informed him.

"That I can fix," the corpsman said.

+++ +++ +++

When Ivan woke up next, Miles was there, but it was a different room. He blinked; this room looked familiar, though he was used to viewing it from the other side of the bed rail. It was ImpMil, all right. He felt a flood of relief.

Miles was eyeing him warily. 

"You all right?" Ivan asked.

"Am I?" Miles repeated. "Yes, you idiot. You're the one who got hurt! Which is why you're in the bed, and I'm in the chair!"

The telling-off woke Ivan further. "I'd worked out that part," Ivan told him petulantly. "Barbas?"

"ImpSec has him," Miles informed him. "He's fine too," Miles added, a bit snarkily, Ivan thought. 

"Good drugs," Ivan told Miles unprompted. 

"I would hope so," Miles said darkly. "Have you been awake long enough for anyone to tell you what happened?"

"No." Suddenly Ivan did feel a little more alert, though still exhausted. 

"Barbas pulled a needler. You pushed me to the ground. Thank you for that, by the way," Miles said quietly.

"Welcome," Ivan said laconically. "But I remember that bit."

"Well, you got shot on the way down. The perimeter man got Barbas with a stunner, but not before…" Miles trailed off then.

But that part was all take-as-read. "Yeah."

"So, you were lifted here, to ImpMil. You've been in surgery twice since then. First, to get the bleeding under some kind of control, and then to replace your liver."

"My liver?"

"You were lucky it was only your liver," Miles told him reprovingly. 

Ivan frowned. He'd been through a lot with that liver. "Dare I ask?" Ivan said. If it was from some corpse, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. 

Miles scrubbed his face before answering. "Yeah. Turns out they can split a liver in half. And each half re-grows into a full liver." Ivan nodded encouragingly. He knew about that. "Gregor."

"Gregor what?" Ivan prompted.

"Lent you a liver?" Miles offered reluctantly.

Ivan's eyes went wide. "Oh," he added faintly. "That's." Well, weird. "Is Gregor okay?" Ivan exerted himself. 

Miles nodded. "He woke up a couple of hours ago. He's sleeping again now. He's fine. You're both fine. You should go back to sleep too, Ivan."

Ivan decided that this was one of Miles' better plans, and closed his eyes.

+++ +++ +++

When Ivan awoke the next time, sunlight was streaming through his window. He cracked his eyes open, experimentally.

Gregor was reading quietly next to him. 

"Sire," he managed, formally.

"Hi, Ivan," Gregor smiled. Ivan wasn’t sure he liked the look of that. "How's the Imperial Liver?" 

Ivan groaned. Gregor's laugh was a disturbing, almost Milesian, cackle. Ivan pulled a pillow over his face. It didn't last long before Gregor whipped it away.

"Thank you for saving my life, Gregor," Ivan said dutifully.

Gregor's smile faltered a little, then, Ivan saw, but "Oh, Ivan," was all Gregor said. Ivan was glad; he didn't particularly fancy another telling off.

"The doctors tell me it's settling in just fine," Gregor said, turning the conversation back to where they'd started. 

Ivan sighed dramatically, and Gregor grinned. "I liked the old one 'just fine'. We'd been through a lot together. All those Winterfair Balls and Emperor's birthdays. Now I have to break a new one in?"

"I wonder if it'll improve your taste in alcohol?"

"Oh, god. Can you imagine getting Miles'? The taste for maple mead?" Gregor was laughing again. Ivan suddenly wondered if Gregor was still drugged. "Are you all right, Gregor?"

"Ivan," Gregor said patiently, "you've been asleep for almost forty hours. I'm nearly ready to go home."

"Oh." That came out a little stupid sounding, Ivan realized. "When do I get to go home?"

Gregor shrugged. "All going well -- another five days. Four, maybe if you're really lucky." Gregor changed tack again. "They wanted to give you Miles'. He was their first choice. But no luck."

"All that bad Betan blood," Ivan agreed. Then, quietly, "I really do appreciate it, Gregor."

Gregor patted Ivan's hand. "How could I not?", he asked. 

Ivan had no answer to this. Eventually, he said, "M'mother?"

"Went home to rest last night. She'll be back sometime this morning." Gregor checked his chrono. "Visiting hours aren't for another hour."

"Laisa?" Ivan asked.

"Is also fine. Though a little harried, I gather. You know how the children adore their Uncle Ivan," Gregor added. "They haven't been allowed, of course." 

"She's not upset?"

Gregor's brow furrowed. "At Barbas, yes. At you, no. Ivan, please. Don't be absurd. If the situation had been reversed, would you have done otherwise?"

"No. But --" he trailed off. He didn't have any children. Or a wife. Or an empire to run. "You could have died, Gregor."

Gregor sighed. "The average donor risk is less than half a percent, Ivan. And I'm in peak health, in the best hospital on the planet, with the best surgical team. I'm sure that improves one's chances." 

"Not enough," Ivan argued. 

"I could also die falling off a horse. Should I stop riding? Or in a lightflyer accident. But I can't walk everywhere; that would only increase my risk of falling to my death down the stairs. Maybe I could live out my life on the ground floor of the Residence. But then I might choke on my vegetables. Nothing is risk-free, Ivan." 

But none of those things were for Ivan's benefit alone. And those were risks anyone might run, and not nearly as dangerous. Ivan snorted. "If the risk of death by vegetable is half a percent, I'll make sure to warn your children not to eat them."

Gregor mock-glowered. Point for Ivan. Finally, Gregor spoke again. "It's done, Ivan," he said quietly. "And I would do it again." Ivan sighed. He knew that. He just. It wasn't even that he wasn't grateful. It was just too much to ask, of anyone. But especially Gregor. "Anyway," Gregor added after a pause. "I call dibs on your kidneys."

"Both of them?"

"Whichever one's nicer."

+++ +++ +++

Ivan woke up to Gregor reading again on what he'd mentally dubbed Day 2 (though it was day four for everyone else). Gregor was discharged by midday, and Ivan was vaguely looking forward to waking up alone on Day 3, but Miles had Emperor's-Voiced himself in. Miles was even harder to cope with than Gregor; he began to get an inkling of how Gregor must feel. But at least Ivan wasn't scolding.

Day 4, perhaps out of subconscious self-defense, he woke up late, so his mother had arrived by the time he awoke. His mother was unusually quiet, as she had been throughout his hospital stay. He didn't know how to apologize, and he didn't want to upset her more. 

Day 5 he awoke, confused, to Gregor again. A glance at the clock told him he'd slept in again, though why Gregor was visiting…

"I've come to spring you," Gregor announced. "The doctors have agreed that you can go home. Well, not home, exactly. You have your choice of: your mother's flat, Vorkosigan House, or the Residence. But you're not fit to be on your own just yet." 

Ivan almost suggested, 'my flat and I hire a nurse', but in the last few days he'd learned that medical staff were even more completely unreasonable than his family. He screwed up his lip in a combination of thought and distaste. The Residence was right out, Imperial Liver or not. It was a ridiculous suggestion, and Ivan wasn't sure why Gregor would even make it. Vorkosigan House -- well, he'd babysat Miles (and Mark) enough. He probably did have the right to impose, especially as Ekaterina and the children were still down in the district. Ma Kosti was a not-inconsiderable upside. Finally, Miles' scoldings were easier to endure than his mother's haunted eyes.

"Vorkosigan House," he groaned. If he thought that this pronouncement might get rid of the oddly and overly concerned Gregor, however, he was mistaken.

"Good," Gregor said. "Ma Kosti's making lunch."

Ivan managed to shower and dress himself, though he was close to exhausted afterwards. 

He felt considerably better after lunch, right up to the point where Roic turned up with more coffee and Gregor unceremoniously suggested that Miles take a hike. 

Miles did not look surprised at this, merely unbearably curious. So. Gregor was up to something, and Miles was in on it, but even Miles didn't know the what. Ivan couldn't help but feel apprehensive. 

After Miles and Roic disappeared, Gregor looked at him -- appraisingly, Ivan decided. "So. First, I want to assure you that this is not a joke."

That did not reassure Ivan. He licked his lips, and nodded.

Gregor retrieved a folder from the case at his side, and slid it across the table to Ivan. Ivan thumbed it open, despite himself. The first three were gene-scans -- his, Miles', Gregor's. The next flimsy was a comparison of his and Miles' gene-scans, concluding that they were not a match. The fifth flimsy was his and Gregor's. A pair of lines were helpfully highlighted; next to these, someone had drawn a pair of arrows, and scrawled, "shared paternity".

"No," Ivan breathed, putting the flimsies down. 

"It's not what you think," Gregor told him quietly. "Serg isn't your father." Ivan forced himself to look at Gregor. "But he isn't mine, either."

"You're telling me," Ivan managed. "That my father, and your mother --"

"Our father, and my mother," Gregor corrected. "Yes. And no. As I said: it's not what you think."

"What is it then?" Ivan asked, bewildered.

And Gregor told him.

So this explained Gregor's odd behavior over the last few days. Ivan didn't know whether to be reassured or offended. 

"The liver," Gregor said. "I want you to know, I'd have given it to you anyway."

Ivan nodded. Gregor must have, after all, volunteered for the gene-scan, all unknowing. But if he hadn't… if he hadn't they could all have gone on as before. 

Well, except maybe for Ivan, who might very well have been dead.

His head was starting to hurt. 

"Who knows?" Ivan asked finally. "Beyond m'mother and Illyan. And the technician."

"I told Laisa," Gregor said. "No-one else. The doctor who did the procedure is still alive. She lives on Komarr. She's retired now." 

"We'll have to tell Miles," Ivan sighed. "And Cordelia, if she doesn't already know."

"Your mother doesn't think so," Gregor said. "Which means Aral almost certainly didn't. And Illyan thinks he never knew either. This was all six years before the Regency, after all, and undoubtedly it was closely-kept."

"Stone-cold, cutting his son out of the bloodline," Ivan remarked.

"Yes," Gregor agreed. "Ezar generally was." 

Ivan raised a brow at this. 

"I remember him, a little," Gregor admitted. "Think of General Count Vorkosigan."

Ivan shuddered. Ezar had been the old man's apprentice, once upon a time. Ring of terrible truth of not, this was all very hard to take in. "So," Ivan began, but words failed him.

"Yeah," Gregor said, smiling absently again, "we're brothers."

Ivan, now recognizing something of Miles' attitude to Mark in Gregor's manner, was not sure this was something to be pleased about.

Miles arrived back, look of curiosity not abated in the least. Ivan let Gregor tell him; Ivan wasn't sure he could, and doubted Miles would ever believe him.

As soon as the story had sunk in, Miles reverted to his manic best. They had to secure the doctor, and get sworn statements from her, under fast-penta if possible. Statements form Alys. Summon Cordelia home from Sergyar and find out if she knew anything. God only knew what it would do to the government if anyone found out. 

Finally, Miles petered out.

Gregor nodded. "The doctor has always been on ImpSec's radar, given that my mother needing a fertility doctor would of course have been a shameful secret." Gregor's mouth twisted only a little as he said that. "I had Duv look into it personally, though he doesn't know why," he said. "Statements from those involved. Perhaps. It would have to be done quietly."

"The next auditor's meeting," Miles suggested. "Aunt Alys can visit Laisa, and she can pop in to visit you at the same time. Recorded under multiple auditors' seals." Miles paused. "My mother, too. She can at least record what she knew of Serg, which I suspect is more than she's told."

"Yes, I suppose it would be safest to prepare a line of defense," Gregor agreed, looking suddenly tired. 

"It's surprising it doesn't already exist," Ivan said. "Ezar had to realize what a potential bomb this was!"

Miles shook his head. "The first replicators wouldn't even arrive on Barrayar for five years, and that was an accident of circumstances: my mother and father in the right place at the right time. No, at the time it must have seemed water-tight. It's more surprising they let the doctor live, knowing what she did."

"You have to wonder, though, why he bothered," Ivan mused. "I mean, it didn't really solve the problem of Serg."

"No," Miles agreed. "Hard to imagine him not going the way of Yuri, in both senses," Miles added, rather delicately, Ivan thought. "My father once told me that he thought the Escobaran ship's lucky shot was the best piece of political good fortune ever to befall Barrayar." There was a pause as they all considered this. "Still, however and whenever Serg shuffled off the mortal coil, Ezar could be sure that the madness ended with him."

In that light, it seemed churlish to wish circumstances were otherwise. But Ivan could not honestly say he was pleased about any of it, on a personal level. He liked being an only child, though he could hardly say so aloud. It wasn't even that it was Gregor, exactly. Gregor might not make a terrible older brother, once the novelty wore off. But being the emperor's younger brother was another matter entirely. That seemed likely to remain a secret, however, for which Ivan was grateful. 

It took Ivan a moment longer to realize what else was upsetting him about -- about this whole thing. Padma Vorpatril was a man Ivan knew only through his mother's stories, and a plaque set into a road in the caravanserai. His father had never even set eyes on Ivan, dying as his mother labored with him. Dying trying to find a doctor to help her, because she labored with him. But Gregor… 

"Do you remember him?" Ivan asked, belated aware that he was cutting across Miles' and Gregor's conversation. Gregor raised a brow. "Er, father."

Gregor looked off into the middle distance as he answered. "A little bit, yes," he said slowly. "I met him a few times, early in the regency. There were a lot of people, you have to understand," Gregor said, and Ivan did. All those oaths, to start with. "But my mother singled out a few, to meet with privately. To meet me privately. Relatives, personal friends of hers. Cordelia and Aral, of course. But Lady Alys and, er. Padma. I suppose I can't get into the habit of calling him father," Gregor reflected. "I remember liking him. He seemed friendly. And, at an overwhelming time, he was less intense than the others. It was a quality I appreciated." Gregor met Ivan's eyes then. "I'm sorry I don't remember more."

Miles was fidgeting, and Ivan suddenly recalled that terrifying day in the Council of Counts, when Miles was called to account for his idiocy in creating/acquiring the Dendarii, committing treason as he did so. How Gregor had asked him, what Miles had intended in raising such a fleet, if not to make himself emperor. How Miles had answered. It remained etched in Ivan's mind.

_"The Dendarii Mercenaries were an accident. I didn't plan them -- they just happened, in the course of scrambling from crisis to crisis. I only wanted to serve Barrayar, as my father before me. When I couldn't serve Barrayar, I wanted -- I wanted to serve something. To -- to make my life an offering fit to lay at his feet."_

He remembered, too, how Uncle Aral's voice had sounded as he told Miles, _"Clay, boy. Only clay. Not fit to receive so golden a sacrifice."_ His voice had cracked, a little, at the end.

He'd often wondered what it would have been like, to have a father, and in between the bouts of terror, he'd felt such envy that day. He thought he understood, a little, how much Gregor must have felt likewise, even before he'd learned the truth about Serg. How could he then deny Gregor's claim on his father? 

It wasn't like it wasn't his to make, after all. 

He pleaded tiredness and excused himself, leaving Miles and Gregor to their contingency planning.

+++ +++ +++

Ivan… Ivan was not taken the news well, it had to be said. But he was taking it rather better than Gregor had feared.

It was an astonishing tilt to one's worldview, after all. And if moreso to Gregor's, at least it was a gift, in Gregor's case. For Ivan, it was only complication. 

Of all of them, it had been Ivan who had studiously kept himself at a remove from the Imperium, to such an extent that Ivan rarely even used Gregor's private vidcom number. And now… If Gregor, as the son of Padma Vorpatril, could be the emperor, where did that leave Ivan?

Gregor wondered once more if he should have perhaps kept the reveal until another time, when Ivan was not still so drained from surgery. But it had not seemed right to keep the knowledge from him any longer than necessary. Beyond that, as Miles has so rightfully emphasized, there were political realities to deal with. He could hardly do that with one hand, and keep Ivan in the dark with the other. 

They'd hardly had a chance to speak in the weeks since the lunch at Vorkosigan House. Laisa, thus, had taken it upon herself to invite the still-recovering Ivan to the Residence, on the disturbing (and truthful) pretext that the children had wanted to see where their father's liver had ended up.

Gregor could hear Ivan dutifully entertaining the children next door, first with a peek at the grotesque scaring, and then with a highly falsified account of its acquisition. "Uncle Ivan, Uncle Ivan," he heard the children clamor, and wondered if it hurt Ivan to hear. 

It wasn't like Ivan would ever admit it.

When he heard Laisa telling the children to go wash their hands for supper, Gregor sighed and joined them. 

Dinner went passably well; the children had kept up a stream of chatter, and Ivan had, as always, played his part perfectly, but Gregor could see the hunted look written in Ivan's eyes. 

He thought Laisa might have seen it too when she called the children away from the table to have their dessert in the garden, leaving the two of them alone.

"Do you want to," Gregor began, but he stopped himself in time. He already knew that Ivan did not want to talk about it. Or, if Ivan did, probably even he didn't know it. Of all of them, Ivan was the picture of repression. He did it on reflex. Ivan, Gregor had come to realize, rarely told anyone anything. Gregor, when pushed, confided in Miles. Miles, when pushed, confided in Ivan. Ivan generally just -- pretended there was nothing to talk about. Gregor wasn't sure that Ivan didn't believe it. "Get very drunk?" he finished.

Ivan nodded. 

The offer seemed to break something of the tension in Ivan, and they passed the bottle between them in companionable silence.

Gregor considered his next move. He realized that Laisa had been right to insist on this dinner; Ivan would never have gone first. 

"I'm sorry," he said quietly as he watched Ivan pour himself a second glass. "Not for the transplant. Sorry that you got hurt. Sorry that you had to find out, too." But he wasn't sorry that it was true, and he couldn't pretend to be.

"I'm sorry I handled it so badly," Ivan said. 

"You didn't," Gregor said. "Considering everything." Ivan had taken it all stoically, in fact. Gregor had, at this point, acquired considerable expertise on how children reacted to the introduction of their siblings. Probably best not to make that comparison aloud, however. 

"I just wish it could all go back to the way it was," Ivan admitted quietly, before draining his glass. 

Gregor followed suit. "I wish, for your sake, that I could wish the same," he admitted ruefully. "But I can't."

"You already have a little brother," Ivan pointed out, a little plaintively, Gregor thought. (Change the 'you' to 'I', and it was a refrain Gregor had already heard, and in roughly that tone.)

Gregor would not smirk. He shrugged instead. "Now I have two." Best to present it as matter-of-factly as possible. They couldn't go back to before they knew, anymore than newborns could be returned to their replicators. 

"I don't want," Ivan began, before abruptly cutting himself off, and picking up the bottle again.

No point in asking Ivan to elaborate, and a request-and-require would not help. He proffered his glass, waiting until Ivan had filled it before asking, "What do you want?"

"Ship duty," Ivan answered promptly.

It was what Ivan always said, but Gregor doubted it was true. "You could have it, you know," Gregor told him.

"Nepotism?" 

"No. The reward for a job well done is another job. Choice of duty, as it were." Gregor said this all with studied neutrality.

Ivan sighed. "I'm forty years old, Gregor." It was an advanced age to start a career in the space forces. 

"It's a sincere offer," Gregor said. It was true, too. Frankly, Alys' worries aside, Ivan was almost definitely safer in space, given how often he ended up roped into helping Miles.

"I don't know what I want," Ivan admitted. "It to be twenty years ago, maybe." He hefted the bottle, but this time he didn't bother with the glass. "And then ship duty."

Gregor twitched the Imperial Fingers in the direction of the bottle, and Ivan passed it with a sigh. As he poured, he thought about what he could say. It probably was true, that Ivan didn't know what he wanted. When had Ivan had any options, after all? His life had been mapped out every bit as thoroughly as Gregor's, and given the differences between Cordelia and Alys, more in some ways. 

Ivan's lack of a space career was bad luck that could happen to anyone, and mostly did happen. Almost every cadet wanted ship duty, and hardly anyone got it. Even Illyan, the most consummate security officer Barraryar had ever had, confessed to dreams, once upon a time, of ship duty. But in Ivan's case… Ivan focused on it, Gregor suspected, because he had nothing else. Ivan had so few choices in his life. 

Marriage and children were fraught -- oh, Gregor didn't think Ivan had desperately wanted to settle down young and been denied -- but Ivan only played the idiot. Gregor had grown to realize how dangerous it would have been, possibly for them all, if Ivan had married as early as Alys had dreamed. And now… Ivan was forty and his bachelorhood had moved from enviable to rather sad, especially since it was plain to anyone who knew Ivan that he was somewhat bewildered by it. 

Matchmaking would not help. Gregor had always assumed Ivan would eventually come to his senses on that score, but Barrayar was not the easiest place to be a bachelor, especially as Ivan's prospects had rapidly dwindled. 

Gregor remembered asking Mark about what he wanted, back when Mark was still finding out who he was. Ivan's life had been, in lieu of the passions, one of simple pleasures and steadfast duty, carefully hidden under a mask of frivolity. 

It was probably true at this point that Ivan no longer knew what he wanted. He'd worried, more than once, that Miles would lose himself to Admiral Naismith. Deep cover men did, sometimes. And Ivan was probably the deepest cover man Barrayar held, perhaps even hidden from himself. 

Thinking about Miles gave Gregor an idea. Miles had an extraordinary gift for personnel. And Miles, for all his Ivan-you-idiot, had pulled off some of his best and brightest achievements with only Ivan as a sidekick. And unlike many other men, Ivan did not resent support roles. 

And Ivan was a decent officer. Bright and hardworking. And very Vor, in his own way. Forty was late for a career in the space forces, but Ivan didn't want a glorious space career. He just wanted a career. The one thing, perhaps, that he'd had entirely of his own. 

It was starting to come together in Gregor's head. It would be hard for Ivan to make it much further up his current chain of command without more varied experience. Ship duty, to start with. Maybe, after that, a posting to Komarr, or another embassy post. Bounce him around for a few years, let him have a chance to grow beyond the role he'd inadvertently become. 

It would be a little hard for Gregor, sending Ivan away just when they were finding each other, but as he told his children, being an older sibling carried responsibilities. It was hard to imagine Vorbarr Sultana as a small town, but it was, for Ivan. Time to let him spread his wings a little. Eventually he would return to the nest. 

A bit happier, hopefully. More experienced and with more options, in life as well as a career. 

And if he didn't have a wife by then, which knowing Ivan was possible, they could through a few parties with carefully selected guests -- maybe a nice little galactic salon? 

Ivan broke through Gregor's reverie. "You look disturbingly like Miles just now. Care to tell me what you're plotting?"

Gregor pointed his finger. "Ship duty." Ivan's eyes lit up, which, given Ivan's earlier admission, Gregor had not expected, and knew he'd made the right choice. Miles could find another donkey to carry his high explosives for a while. 

"Let's see what happens."

**Author's Note:**

> So... sequel?


End file.
